Raging, crazy liberal women are the only ones who hate Sarah Palin, and it’s all because we’re all jealous.
Spinster angry columnists are the only ones who are writing angry shit about her. Yes, they really use those words.
I can’t embed this, but hopefully this works. Please watch this.
And what’s the wig on the one on the right?
Hmmm. I wasn’t aware that Colin Powell, John McCain, Andrew Sullivan, Steve Schmidt and all the other prominent MEN who thought Palin was a bonehead were RAGING and CRAZY and LIBERAL WOMEN.
Callum and I were trying to come up with the top ten TV show relationships (not just romantic ones). Here’s what I came up with. Feel free to add to the list, but if any of you say Ross and Rachel or Seinfeld and Kramer I will reach through the screen and punch you.
1. My first favourite is Stringer Bell and Avon Barksdale from The Wire. The tension builds over three seasons between these childhood best friends, and you just know that no good can come of it. Suberbly acted by Idris Elba and Wood Harris. Just wow.
2. Scully and Mulder. Talk about sexual tension. God I love these two.
3. In a whole different direction: Liz Lemon and Jack Donaghy. “Lemon, I give you a simple management suggestion in a professional context, and I get back the second half of a Judy Blume novel.”
4. A dog and a baby. Who would’ve thought?
Mike got me thinking about how wonderful it is to be articulate about music (something I’m not). I just hammer away at something until I eventually spit it out. Luckily Mike is much more eloquent about it.
I don’t know how to describe my musical taste – I sort of have the tastes of a crotchety 62-year-old man, what with all the Daniel Lanois, John Hiatt and Ry Cooder floating around this blog.
Let’s put it this way, but don’t read too much into it:
I like Pink better than Feist.
I like Paul better than John (most days).
I like U2 (from 1981 to 1995) better than Arcade Fire.
I like Bob Dylan in the eighties.
I like all of the artists mentioned above, I just like the ones on the left more. I mean, there’s nothing particularly novel about any of this, obviously. I guess I’m a sucker for a killer chorus. To me, a pop song has a very broad definition: it has to have either a chorus or a bridge that just slays you. A perfect pop song is one that feels both familiar and original at the same time, “Help” by the Beatles being a good example. So for all that pop music can be described by a chord progression or a certain song structure, to me it’s better described by a feeling. I think that feeling can get buried some times: like for example, some people hate U2 now because they’ve been played to death combined with the fact that they’re douchebags. I was driving down the QEW the other day with the windows rolled down and the sunshine in my eyes and “Where the Streets Have No Name” came on the radio. I cranked it way up and just listened to it like I was hearing it for the first time. It was fucking otherworldly.
Maybe I’ve stumbled on a second criteria for pop: it sounds best played loud.
Now, I’m not knocking indie, and I actually quite like this band, but have you ever heard a douchier indie-er song and band name than “Moving Pictures, Silent Films” by Great Lake Swimmers?
I’ve been cruising through the Q TV youtube channel and thoroughly enjoying myself. I had a lovely chuckle about the title of that GLS song and also suddenly remembered how kickass this song was:
Oh man, oh man, am I ever a sucker for reggaeton. I heard this in the mall the other day and it just made my day.
And by strikes I mean punches you in the face with his beautiful writing. Rachel Maddow of MSNBC called him the most beautiful writer in all of U.S. commentary, whatever that may be.
One of the reasons I’ve been blogging so much about obesity, class, and race, is that these are the questions I live with. To set down the road of food consciousness, to endeavor to understand what you’re putting in the only body you’ll ever have, is to phase-shift into a parallel world. You become acquainted with ritual of unwrapping aluminum foil on long plane rides. You cut elaborate deals with your partner over child-care and cleaning. You go hurtling through the internet in search of a decent pizza stone. It angers your son, because his simple request for Pop-Tarts turns into a pop-quiz referencing the ingredients on the box.
But more than that, it’s the world I live in. The buses in Harlem heave under the weight of wrecked bodies. New York will not super-size itself, so you’ll see whole rows in which one person is taking up two seats and aisles in which people strain to squeeze past each other. And then there are the middle-age amputees in wheelchairs who’ve lost a leg or two way before their time. When I lived in Brooklyn, the most depressing aspect of my day was the commute back home. The deeper the five train wended into Brooklyn, the blacker it became, and the blacker it became, the fatter it got.